


Starstruck

by buck_me_cap



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoo Artist Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buck_me_cap/pseuds/buck_me_cap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: AU in which soulmates have complementing tattoos that they're born with. Person A hates the idea of soulmates and having their choice taken away so they decide to get their soul mark covered up. Person B is the tattoo artist and quickly realises that Person A is their soulmate, though after hearing how Person A feels about it they're torn between bringing it up and not saying anything</p><p>	or</p><p>	Another soulmate fic that no one asked for where Bucky is an angsty tattoo artist who is both sexually and romantically frustrated and Steve Rogers is the walking talking embodiment of everything he craves. Oh, and he's his soulmate, but there’s just one problem — Steve hates the idea and refuses to let fate decide before him, so the first time they meet he asks Bucky to cover up his soul mark for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starstruck

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first in many things; the first piece I'm posting on here, the first explicit piece I've ever written, the first time I've written in six months, the first piece I've ever written for this pairing and the first piece I've written over five thousand words.  
> So, I'd just like to thank anyone who reads this, and apologise for any mistakes as I have no beta whatsoever and this was written over the course of a week between 12am and 4am.  
> I hope this is actually enjoyable to some people.

    Bucky is nearly thirty years old, owns his own tattoo parlour and gets a generous cheque each week, he's got a good apartment, a damn nice motorcycle and good friends who he's pretty sure would take a bullet for him. The feeling is mutual, considering he's got the scar to prove it after his short stint at college. But despite the fact he doesn't have to worry about going without food like when he was a kid or struggling to pay his rent, there’s something missing from his life — an empty sort of ache in his chest that only seems to be getting worse with every passing year.

   He knows its because he hasn't found his soulmate, but he refuses to admit that to any of his friends. Hell, its not like he's some anomaly for not having found the right girl, or guy of course; he remembers reading some crappy article online (no, he hadn't searched it up in a fit of desperation fuelled by alcohol one night, he'd simply stumbled across it) that said only around 70% of the population ever actually found their soulmates. Okay, almost three quarters of the world, but still — there is thirty percent out there that don't stand a chance, and he’s come to realise that number probably involved him too.

   It’s not like Bucky is one of those prudes who has some romantic idea about saving themselves for their soulmates, though he respects those who do considering it obviously involves self control and, you know, not being a selfish ass. He’s had plenty of relationships over the past few years, but none of them lasted more than a few months. It sounds so horribly cliché to admit but the truth was that none of them ever felt right; he's never been in love, never experienced shocks down his spine when he holds someone’s hand, never gotten butterflies in his stomach talking to someone, never gotten fireworks when kissing someone. And he'd be damned if he'd ever admit it, but those are things he wants.

   Maybe he's already met his soulmate unknowingly — maybe they took one look at him, realised what an idealistic prick he was and decided to turn around and try their luck with someone else. That'd be just his luck.

   He knows that over 90% of those who meet their soulmates do so by the time they're 23 (he tries to tell himself this is common knowledge, but he also knows that if Natasha ever heard him mention this she’d never let him live down the fact he'd actively looked these statistics up), so at the age of 28 it was becoming more and more unlikely that he would in fact ‘get lucky’. He's getting desperate and he hates that, but what he hates even more is waking up alone every morning in a cold bed, coming home to an empty apartment and spending his days wasting away either in the shop or at the bar. Then again its not like he can just go around stripping people down and search for a matching star, can he? His mind tells him no, that’s illegal and classified as sexual assault, but his heart tells him to go for it — maybe the cop that arrests him will be his soulmate and they can have passionate cell sex.

~

   Bucky wakes up with a pounding headache that he knows can only be solved by a steaming cup of caffeine. He bangs his head against the kitchen cupboard when he realises that he's out of coffee, quickly dumping the empty glass jar in the bin as he reasons that the only way he's going to get his fix is by using the crappy machine in the waiting room at work. His eyes flicker up to the clock and he lets out a primal grunt, quickly changing into a decent set of clothing — tight black jeans that he knows make his ass look good and a deep blue button down Clint had bought him last year that apparently accentuate his stormy grey eyes — and tying his messy hair back before grabbing a protein bar out of the cupboard and dragging himself out of his apartment.

   By the time he reaches the familiar parlour he's a wreck, shoulders slumped and eyes hard as he drags himself through the front door. Darcy instantly looks up from the ridiculous (“It’s retro,” she’d reasoned with a bright red pout until he'd finally given in and let her keep the monstrosity) red and white office chair and arches one eyebrow. She must be able to tell how bad he is because she doesn't even comment this morning, instead fetching him a coffee made just how he likes it, letting out an impressed huff as he fetches a can of Mother from the staff fridge and tips a fair amount into the paper cup. What can he say, ever since he's been trying to cut down on the alcohol he's gained a new addiction that can only be fuelled by copious amounts of caffeine. Natasha tells him he’ll die of a heart attack before he turns thirty. Clint only cheers him on.

   Who knows, maybe if his heart finally gives out he’ll end up in the hospital and he’ll get some hot doctor who gives him a different sort of medicine. He shakes his head and scoops the concoction up into his palm, shuffling over into the office and closing the door behind him with a soft click. Bucky knows he needs to get a grip, but that doesn't stop him from daydreaming as he sips on his sugary poison.

   It’s a relatively calm day, surprisingly; a group of teenage girls come in at 10, batting their eyelashes and biting down on their lips as one of their friends gets their septum pierced. A few years ago he would have offered up a cocky smirk, revelled in the attention and maybe even flirted back a little bit. He knows he's an attractive man, always has, but he's by no means vain. Now, though, he simply keeps his smile tightlipped and touches the girl as little as possible, explaining everything in an even voice before sending them on their way despite how much they try to find a way to stay.

   He doesn't normally do piercings even though he's trained to — he leaves that to Natasha who specialises in it, though its her day off — and instead focuses on tattooing. He's always been an ink junkie, getting his first tattoo in the back of some guys house when he was only 16 (his mother had grounded him for months afterwards, but it'd been worth it, even if the piece was a little dodgy) but it was only in his second year of college when he was failing, already half covered in them and sketching up new designs constantly that he even considered the idea of doing it as a living. Now, six years after he owns his own store, works with his friends and makes more money than he probably would in some boring office job. He loves his job more than anything, including his bike.

   At half past one Darcy buzzes him in from the front office and he pushes himself up off his stool, running a hand back through his hair and closing up his sketchbook before walking out. He doesn't know what he expects — maybe a pizza? A hulking mass of muscle, accompanied by short cropped blonde hair and the most stunning blue eyes he's ever seen is certainly not a pizza, though he'd devour him just the sam—

   Bucky shakes his head slightly and forces a smile, holding his hand out to the other man and hoping that he doesn't accidentally forget to let go or something, or better yet start feeling the poor guy up in the middle of the room. Adonis smiles at him, flashing a set of pearly whites that only seem to add to this whole picture-perfect look he has going on. He almost hopes this is a piercing job because he really wants to be sticking something in this guy one war or another; if not his dick, then why not a piece of metal?

   The guy takes his hand and shakes it, though he's too caught up in how soft and big his hands are to realise that he just introduced himself — Steve Rogers, he finally realises, and he’ll be damned if his heart doesn't flutter at that like some teenage girl. The name suits him, he realises, though he may be a little biased by the way he can make out nearly every detail of his chest under that white shirt. He's going to worship Natasha for insisting they install these fluorescent lights last year.

   “Bucky Barnes,” he simply offers with a coy smirk, ignoring the look he's getting off Darcy and reluctantly letting go of Steve’s beautiful, beautiful hand (artists hands, he realises, though his own are far more worn after years of riding his bike) before leading him over into his office. He can’t help it if the look he gives the brunette woman as he closes the door is absolutely predatory, as if to say that yes, this ass is mine. He doesn't know where the sudden possessiveness is coming from but he's certainly not going to complain when for the first time in so long his whole body is buzzing with excitement.

   “So, what can I do for you Steve?” Bucky drawls as he slumps down onto his stool, swivelling it around so that he can face the other man and rest his elbows on his knees. God, he's even more attractive here now that he can get a proper look at him, all firm lines and muscle that he could just spend hours worshipping. He doesn't want to come off too strong so he attempts, and probably fails, to tone down the bedroom eyes he knows he was giving him. Hell, he doesn't even care anymore, not when he has the guy alone.

   He’ll be damned if a shiver doesn't run down his spine when Steve literally blushes and turns his eyes away slightly, trailing them around the room as he seems to consider the question. He can't help but feel smug at the expression that crosses his face as he takes in all of the photos of his work hung up. “I, uh, wanted to get a cover up? Nothing major actually, just getting a few things added to make it seem less obvious,” he mumbles almost nervously, rubbing one of his palms over the back of his neck and letting those bright blue eyes slide right back over to Bucky. He shifts a little in his seat.

   “Yeah, we can do that — you wanna show me what we’re working with, tell me how you got it?” He questions, clearing his throat a little and trying to ignore just how fucking turned on he is right now Jesus Christ, when was the last time he even felt this way? He can't help but notice Steve starts fiddling with with the fabric of his shirt, his eyebrows furrowing as he starts wondering if somehow the guy is actually embarrassed of his body. No, that wasn't possible, so he came to the conclusion that the tattoo itself must either be embarrassing or offensive some way. God, he hopes he's not some kind of secret Nazi, especially with this whole Hitler Youth look he's got going on.

   “I didn't get it exactly,” Steve simply mutters, looking up at Bucky expectantly as though that explains everything. He blinks a few times, his jaw ticks, and then the realisation hits him and his eyes widen, just as the man across from him gives in and pulls that white shirt up over his head.

   “Oh.”

   Oh crap, he’s so fucked — what did he do to deserve this?

   Steve stares at him expectantly, fiddling nervously in his seat as Bucky stares at him as though he's just seen a ghost. Hell, he's pretty sure he'd rather than over this, even some kind of poltergeist shit. Because he can barely breathe, or do anything really, other than stare at the small white star inked into the other mans skin, dead centre on his chest and an exact replica in everything except colour of the one on his left arm. He swallows thickly before letting out a shaky breath and nodding, hoping he isn't being too obvious. In that moment he's never been so glad that he's worn a long sleeved shirt.

   “I— sorry, about that I mean, it’s just I don't get too many people in here who want to get their soul mark covered up,” Bucky covers smoothly, his lips curling up dryly. “Actually you're the first. I don't mean to pry, but is there any particular reason you want to? It just helps if I know what the tattoo means,” he continues, knowing he is just babbling crap now, trying to find an excuse why this beautiful man wants to cover up their mark, even if he doesn't know it.

   Steve simply shrugs, muscles relaxing slight as soon as Bucky starts talking and stops practically gaping at him. “I just don't believe in all that, you know? I mean, as a kid it sounded amazing, having someone perfect for you out there, just waiting for you to find them, but now . . . I wanna live my own life and make my own choices, not have everything laid out for me by ‘fate’ or whatever they want to call it.”

   Bucky will be damned if his heart doesn't absolutely shatter at that and he has to look away, ignoring the tightness in his throats as he realises the cruelness of this all. Finally after so long he's found his guy, but said guy wouldn't want anything to do with him if he knew they were soulmates, and now he wants Bucky to destroy that bond they have. He considers just telling him but decides against it. It pains him, but he just told him he doesn't believe in it or want it, so why make things worse? That and the fact that if he’s about to lose Steve Rogers for good he wants it to be able to relish in this for a few hours and drink in every detail of his body.

   He’s seen the protests on TV before, but he's never paid much attention to them. Ordinary people just like him, except for the fact that they're so utterly against the idea of soulmates that they protest against the governments of the world, as though they can actually do something about it. He wants to yell that they're idiots — that you're born with them, not given them — but he's never actually met one of these people until now, and the only thing he wants to yell is his name.

   Bucky is more than a little surprised when his— Steve. When Steve already has an idea drawn up, pulling it out of his coat and handing it over to him almost nervously, fidgeting under the light, no doubt due to the fact he’s half naked and his tattoo artist can't stop looking at him like he wants to devour him. Not untrue in the slightest. He has to admit he's honestly a little amazed by how good it is despite how sceptical he’d been at first. He offers up one of his wide, cocky grins before swinging around in his chair to start tracing the design onto the adhesive. He can feel Steve’s eyes on his back and he absolutely loves it, even if it makes him want to do nothing more than to fling himself around and tackle the blond to the floor so he could have his way with him.

   A brief flicker of thought catches his attention and his hand pauses from where it was replicating the lines, eyes widening slightly at the idea. That despite not knowing they were soulmate, maybe Steve could somehow feel the connection and maybe, just maybe, he was interested in him.

   Lord have mercy on his soul.

   He manages to finish up the design without too many more lapses, swinging around and rubbing at his mouth as he holds it up for inspection. He’d added a few more details here and there, but for the most part it’s the same as it was before and he hoped to God that Steve likes it, because he does too. Instead of actually covering up the star like he'd originally feared, the design mainly goes around it, making it seem more like part of a design than a piece of ink that designates who he should spend the rest of his life with. It’s honestly beautiful and maybe it'll give him a chance to brush his fingers across that particular stretch of skin a few times, not to mention that sculpted chest.

   Bucky’s mouth waters just a little (okay, more like a lot) at the idea of sliding his hands over those pecs and lowering his mouth to them before trailing lower and lower . . .

   Steve breaks him out of his thoughts, cheeks a little flustered as he calls his name for the third or so time. He simply smiles as though he hadn't just been salivating over going down on him before instructing him to lie back down on the large, cushioned tattoo chair and he brings his own over, positioning it at his side. He tries not to swallow as he gently lays the stencil over his chest, pants growing considerably tighter as his fingers brush against bare skin. He's so utterly glad the other man can’t see his lap now, because that would be embarrassing and most of all unprofessional.

   “Okay, I’m going to get the gun started up now and then I’ll do the outline before going back in with the colour. Not gonna lie, it hurts like a bitch, but the results will hopefully be worth it. That said, if it gets too much or you want me to stop, you either say so or pinch me. If you get dizzy in any sort of way or nauseas, you tell me straight away, even if it’s only a little — I refuse to have you passing out on me if I can help it,” Bucky orders, though his last few words are more teasing than anything as he fiddles around with the gun and pulls on his gloves, letting the cool leather snap against his skin.

   He’s pretty sure Rogers gulps at that but he wasn't looking at the time and there’s no way to be certain.

   “Okay sir,” Steve offers in a mocking tone, oblivious to what it does for Bucky’s libido as he stretches back in the seat and bares his chest. He gives in and swallows, making sure the ink is flowing before gently touching the point to his golden skin, watching its keen eyes as he doesn't even flinch, though his nose screws up a little at the sensation.

   Steve Rogers takes his tattoo gun like a champ and he’ll be damned if that isn't the biggest turn on ever. Not only does he not wince or twist away from the pain, even as Bucky directs the needle even closer to his nipple to finish off a line. By the time he finishes the outline his dick is so hard and constricted in his jeans he wants to die, but his focus when working is paramount and he doesn't so much as shift in his seat as he switches over the needle and adds the colour, starting with the blue that only seems to accentuate the man beneath him’s eyes. If he'd thought that was hot, this was outright pornographic.

   Which wasn't so unreasonable considering the bastard had fucking moaned when the needle had reconnected with his skin, through his head back and following it up with a little hiss that made Bucky want to sink his teeth into his bottom lip even more than he already had.

   He’s basically on the verge of creaming his pants like he's a teenager in the back of Rumlow’s car again when he finally finishes the shading, swallowing and clicking off the machine before stripping the gloves off of his hands. They've been here for almost six hours and it’s dark outside but he's never felt more awake. “All done,” he breaths out against his better judgement, praying as Steve sits up that he won’t look down and see his extremely obvious boner.

   He hands over a small handheld mirror, smile mirroring that of the one on his clients face that lights up impossibly as they land on the design now painted across his chest. “God, it’s beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, getting a good look before handing the mirror back and watching as Bucky goes about fetching some cream and wrap to cover it.

   “Well, I appreciate the compliment Rogers. I have to admit it’s one of my favourites, and not just because of the model,” he teases as he starts gingerly rubbing it over his chest, fingers lingering on the star in the centre before he could stop himself. He expects Steve to say something or stiffen under his touch, but instead he leans into it, and a brief glance upwards reveals that his pupils are dilated and he's biting down gently on that bottom lip that he desperately wants between his. Or wrapped around his cock. He doesn't have a particular preference.

   Instead of acting on it he finishes dressing the area before pulling back and handing the blond his shirt with a sultry smirk, watching intently as the man shrugs it over his head and lets it settle across his chest. He loves that he can see the outline through the material and the clear wrap. Hell, it’s primal and ridiculous and a little creepy but he loves that somehow he's managed to leave a permanent mark on the other male.

   “Thank you Buck, I honestly love it,” Steve offers with a sincere smile, pushing himself up out of the chair and it’s only then that Bucky realises he has to stand and God, he's going to see how ridiculously hard I am right now after six hours, what do I do?

   He smiles in return, though it doesn't reach his eyes and is a little tighter, reluctantly forcing his legs to comply as he moves to stand in front of the other man, pointedly trying to relax and seem casual as he stares at him. “No problem,” he pops, clicking his tongue slightly despite how dry his mouth is. “I’m glad you enjoy it. Now, you've got to have that on for at least twenty four, and keep using that cream so that it doesn't dry out, okay? If it gets infected you can come back here or you can go straight to the doctors, though I recommend the latter.”

   He looks back at Steve’s face and realises a crucial fact. Steve is looking down. Steve is looking down and smirking. His dick jumps traitorously at the revelation.

   “You know, I don't wanna be presumptuous or try to get out of my bill, but any chance you wanna let me take care of that?” His soulmate queries in the lowest, sexiest voice he's ever heard and he practically shudders. He's about to say yes and let him drop to his knees like he's been daydreaming about, but instead he smirks and shakes his head.

   “Nah, you seem like a fancy dame — don’t you think I should take you out to dinner first? Maybe tomorrow, if you're free?” he offers without missing beat, cocking his head slightly as he watches Steve’s face fall for a moment. Hell, maybe he has it wrong — maybe he isn't attracted to him any further than a one night stand and maybe he's imaging this bond between them. It’s certainly plausible considering he knows they're soulmates, yet the other man has no clue.

   Steve’s face lights up at that though, a wide grin that seems far too big and childish for his features yet beautiful nonetheless spreading across his face as he nods. “Yeah, I think I’d like that. How about I grab one of those cards from the counter with your number, and I’ll text you later? Then we can sort out the details,” he offers in return, looking more hopeful than anything.

   Instead of answering instantly he smirks and plants a small kiss to the blond’s cheek, dangerously close to the corner of his lips. “You do that doll,” he whispers in a husky voice, biting down on his bottom lip and giving in to the temptation to squeeze his ass as he walks out of his office.

   Lord, he wants to know if that ass tastes as good as it looks.

~

   They go out on dates. Dates as in plural, which implies that yes, Steve actually likes him.

   He knows its so wrong not to tell him the truth, but now they're up to their fourth date and they're curled up on Steve’s couch, up to their fifth Harry Potter movie and he can’t bring himself to break the mood with something he knows very well could destroy everything. For once he's happy, and maybe it’s selfish but the last thing he wants to do is jeopardise this. It’s not like he hasn't tried either — to tell him, that is. Like on their second date when some guy had bumped into him at the club just as he'd been about to force the words out, or on their last one where they ended up in his apartment and he was this close to dropping to his knees in front of the couch and sucking Steve off after he kept swirling that lollipop around on his tongue. The point is, he doesn't want to let this end, even though he wants nothing more than to be honest with the blond and have it all work out.

   But Bucky Barnes doesn't deal well with rejection at the best of times; the last time it happened with someone he cared about? Well, it destroyed him, and that was nothing compared to what he had with Steve.

   His eyes are actually focused on the screen for once when all of a sudden the hand that had been resting on his knee starts ghosting up his thigh and he can feel Steve shift beside him. A glance down reveals he's still looking at the screen as though he's not getting dangerously close to his crotch. He doesn't make a move to stop him, instead watching him and waiting curiously to see how far he goes.

   Turns out that when he sets his mind to things he doesn't beat around the bush, because within a few moments of the though he feels a large hand cup him through his jeans and his breath hitches, body tensing as the hand starts to squeeze gently and rub at the area. Needless to say he's hard within the minute, dick straining painfully against the denim as Steve palms him through the material, providing just enough friction to arouse him but not enough to get him off.

   He lets it go for a few moments, pretending he hasn't even noticed, only to let out a breathy noise when the blond starts mouthing at his shoulder, nipping and sucking gently before squeezing his crotch a little harder and pressing down against him. “You can’t tell me you're honestly more interested in the movie than having your way with me,” he mutters, obviously not amused with Bucky’s lack of participation.

   He simply smirks before twisting, pinning Steve’s hands up above his head as he presses him down into the couch. “Oh Stevie, nothing could ever be more interesting than you, though I have to ask what you're implying here?” he teases, nuzzling at his throat before placing a firm bite to add to the plethora of bruises decorating his paler skin. The moan it elicits is far too satisfying and it obviously takes him a few moments to formulate an actual answer.

   “I’m implying that you better have some lube or some shit in your bedroom, cause I’ve been wanting you to bend me over your desk since the first time I saw you and I figure your bed is the next best thing,” he breathes out with a smirk, eyes glinting with a competitive look as he tries to grind his hips up against him. Bucky lets out a moan at that, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to try and ground himself for a few moments before he’s practically dragging Steve up and down the hall into his bedroom.

   “Of course I have lube you idiot — what, do you think I don't jack off?” he snorts, stripping off the blond’s shirt and tracing his fingers over the tattoo on his chest with a hungry gaze. The swelling has gone down now and there aren't any scabs, so the line work has settled well and it’s looking absolutely perfect. Knowing he’s left that mark leaves him even harder, if that’s possible. He admires it for a few moments before shoving him down on the bed and divesting him of his jeans, tugging them off harshly before getting rid of his own and crawling up on top of him.

   The bottle is quickly brought out after sifting through his bedside drawer for a few moments — nothing fancy or flavoured, but it’ll still do. He’s halfway through lubing up his fingers when suddenly Steve shrugs his boxers off and flips over, balancing on his hands and knees and pushing his ass up in the air. It’s too good to resist sinking his teeth into the pale flesh, bringing out another beautiful moan. “You don't need to— fuck, already prepped myself in your bathroom earlier,” he bites out, burying his face in the pillow and sticking his ass back a bit more.

   Bucky stiffens at that, only to let out a practically pornographic noise and nod, even though he can’t see him. “God, you're too fucking good to be real Rogers,” he muses, pulling off his own shirt without so much as a thought, brain far too addled by testosterone and adrenaline at this point. After that he takes his time a bit more, trailing soft, tender kisses across Steve’s back and back as he strokes the lube on his fingers over his dick, trying not to work himself up too much, but trying to use enough that it won’t hurt him. “I wondered why you took so long. Can’t say I’m disappointed,” he muses in a low voice, breath ghosting over the blond’s ear as he slowly presses in, fingers shifting to dig into his hips as he gently pulls him back.

   It takes a few moments, even though Steve tried to push back on him instantly and he had to stop him, letting out small, breathy moans as he slowly sinks in until their thighs are touching and he's bottomed out. “Fuck, you've got now idea how good you feel,” he murmurs, burying his face in the back of his neck and rubbing circles on his hips, giving him time to adjust.

   Turns out he's having no part of this, because he shifts forward before all but slamming himself back on Bucky’s cock, letting out an honest to God whine before repeating the action.

   “If I feel so good then maybe you should move, unless I have to do all the work myself.”

   Bucky doesn't need to be told twice, pulling back until just the tip is still inside him before snapping his hips forward in a harsh movement, ripping another noise from his throat.

   It’s not like he hasn't done this before so many times, but maybe it’s because it’s Steve and maybe it’s because he knows that this beautiful, beautiful man that’s writhing and crying out beneath him is his soulmate, but this is the best sex he's ever had in his life. It switches between rough and gentle so quickly and randomly, but somehow it feels like more than a quick fuck and more like they're actually making love — as though this isn't just about the pleasure, but also about the being so physically and mentally close.

   Bucky surges forward, hips stuttering as he feels Steve suddenly tighten around him, muscles contracting so tightly that he can’t help but cry out, spilling himself inside him and doubling over. The other man lets out a low sort of whine, body shaking as he no doubt rides out his own orgasm too. Fuck, he thinks as he lets a bit more of his weight go down onto his back, nuzzling at the back of his neck, I didn't even touch his dick.

   It’s by far the hottest thing he's ever experience in bed; his partner coming just from the feeling of being penetrated, and it fills him with a strange sort of pride.

   They stay that way for a few moments, panting and trying to collect themselves before Bucky gently pulls out and rolls off onto the left side of the bed, watching with lidded eyes as Steve slumps down too. “Did I tire you out?” he teases, though his voice is a little wrecked at hat point and he brings one hand up to run through his hair.

   For a few moments he doesn't realise why the other man doesn't answer him — not until his arm falls down and he looks over at him with a curious look, only for all the colour to drain from his face as he notices the eyes focused on his arm. More specifically the red star on his bicep. His blood runs cold, body stiffening and eyes widening.

   “God — I’m sorry, I just . . . I was going to tell you, I swear, I just knew how you felt about it and I didn't want you to not be with me just because of it,” he rambles before sucking in a deep breath and pausing, noticing the way Steve pushes himself to sit up and start gathering his clothes. “Please, you have to believe me; I wanted you to fall in love with me just because of me, not because we’re soulmates or anything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before—“

   “Don’t,” the blond breathes out in a breathy voice, more unsure than anything as he turns to actually look at him. He doesn't miss the movement of his throat as he swallows, eyes focused on the red star on his arm as his fingers trace the white one on his chest. Bucky doesn't speak anymore, eyes stinging as he grits his teeth together and focuses on the threads of his sheets; of the pleasant buzz in his spine and the dread in his gut and the way he feels like he can barely even breathe anymore.

   God, he should have just told him from the start, gotten this all over with and saved them both the heartbreak. Because now Steve is going to up and leave him, tell him that he hates his guts and never wants to see his face ever again.

   “Yeah, well I guess you succeeded, because all I want to do right now is leave, but I can’t,” he snaps, sounding more hurt than anything as he chucks his clothes down onto the floor and drags the blanket up over himself. Bucky looks up at that, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to process what the other man means, only to come to a loss. Lucky he seems to realise that, because after a few moments he continues speaking.

   “You’re a goddamn fucking idiot Barnes, you know that? You should've just told me sooner and we wouldn't be having this problem. I told you I didn't care about the whole soulmate thing, but that doesn't mean I’d purposely not be with you because of it,” he slurs, turning away and wiping at his eyes. “So whether I want to or not I love your stupid ass, and I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon.”

   Bucky blinks a few times, eyes wide, lips parted. Steve loves him. Steve wants him. Steve loves him—

   “God, I love you too, I’m so sorry,” he breaths out, not even hesitating before pulling the other man to his chest and littering his face with small kisses before pressing their lips together, a hand brushing back through his hair fondly as he buries his face in his neck.

   “You’re making this up to me.”

   “Damn right I am.”

   “I love you, jerk.”

   “Love you too punk, now shut up and let me kiss you again.”  


 

 


End file.
